


Douchebag

by karcathy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karcathy/pseuds/karcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat works at a coffee shop, and Dave's orders are stupidly complex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Douchebag

You had this guy down as a douchebag from the first moment he walked in, wearing those dumb sunglasses even though you hadn’t seen the sun for days and grinning smugly. You glare at him as he saunters up to the counter and leans casually against it.

“What do you want?” you ask, perhaps a little more bluntly than you’re technically supposed to, but you don’t expect a tip from this guy, anyway.

“I’d like a non-fat vanilla soy latte with an extra shot of espresso, vente, no foam,” he says, in an irritating southern drawl, “Oh, and could I get a cup of ice?”

You finish scrawling down his order, muttering under your breath, then look up at him, an expression of disbelief on your face.

“You want a cup... of ice?” you ask, feeling sorely tempted to pour a whole vat of the stuff over him, and wipe that smug smile off of his face.

“Yep. Just ice.”

“Fine, whatever,” you say, shovelling a scoop of ice into a plastic cup and handing it to him, “That’s four twenty. Your latte’ll be ready in a bit.”

He hands over a five dollar bill, and tells you to keep the change, which makes you feel like throwing it in his face. You mutter inventive expletives under your breath as you prepare his unnecessarily complex drink, giving the machine a dirty look as you work, then slam it down on the counter, barely managing not to spill any.

“Here’s your fucking latte,” you say, glaring at him.

“Thanks,” he says, still smiling as he goes to sit down.

You watch him drink the coffee, then eat his ice cubes one by one, and decide you’ve never hated anyone more. He grins at you as he leaves, and you have to resist the temptation to flip him off. You remind yourself that being rude to customers is a safe way to get fired, even if they are pretentious pricks.

 

He comes back the next day, trailing a girl with a vaguely amused expression, and grins at you. You overhear him telling the girl how great the customer service in this place is, and your knuckles turn white as you grip the edge of the counter.

“What now?” you ask, attempting to sneer at him.

“I’ll have a half-caff low fat grande mocha, cream not milk, and a pump of hazelnut,” he says, and you feel like grabbing his sunglasses and snapping them in half.

“No ice today, then?” you say, scribbling down his order, your pen viciously puncturing the paper.

“Nope. What about you?” he asks, turning to the girl.

“Earl grey. With milk,” she says, smiling at you.

You snort, and jot her order down too.

“Six seventy,” you say, holding out your hand.

“Keep the change,” he says, handing you a twenty.

You glare at him, feeling frankly insulted, then turn away to make their drinks. You desperately want to spit in his, but resist the temptation. You hand him the drinks in surly silence, and think about all the things you’d say to him if you weren’t afraid of losing your job. He keeps glancing over at you as he drinks, and you give him a dirty look every time you catch him staring at you. You decide the girl must be his sister. She looks at you in nearly the same way he does, but all your dirty looks are reserved for him. You fantasise about spilling hot coffee on him, and wonder whether he’ll come back again. Part of you hopes he does.

 

He comes back again two days later, alone. He grins at you as he walks in, and you flip him off. He laughs.

“What is it this time?” you ask, glaring at him.

“A coffee, however you like it,” he says, and somehow, his smile seems less sarcastic than usual, “Make yourself one, too.”

“I don’t want a coffee,” you say, too taken aback to even be rude to him.

“Oh, go on. I’m paying. Come sit with me, there’s no one else for you to reluctantly make coffee for, anyway.”

He gives you a twenty dollar note, and you sigh, then go and make two regular coffees, with extra milk and one and a half sugars. He takes his and goes over to a corner table, giving you a pointed look. You sigh again, then follow him, cupping your drink in your hands. You sit down opposite him, and he stares at you over the top of his mug. You can just about see his eyes through his shades.

“What?” you ask, after about a minute of silence, sipping your drink and raising your eyebrows.

“Oh, I was just waiting for you to say something,” he says, half-smiling.

“Why’d you buy me coffee?” you ask, taking another sip and noticing he still hasn’t touched his.

“’Cause you’re cute,” he says, shrugging and glancing away.

You turn bright red and glare at your drink.

“Didn’t you think I was rude,” you mutter, not looking at him.

“Yeah. That was pretty cute, too.”

“So what were the stupid orders for?” you ask, finally managing to look up and stare defiantly at him.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he says, with a casual shrug.

You snort and take a hasty sip of your drink, burning your tongue.

“I don’t even know your name,” you say, looking down at your drink.

“Dave. Dave Strider.”

“Karkat Vantas,” you say, giving him a look that silently dares him to comment.

His lip twitches into a slight smile, but he doesn’t say anything about your less-than-normal name.

“So,” he says, lifting his cup and taking a sip, then pulling a face.

“Don’t like my coffee?” you ask, raising one eyebrow.

“Too sweet.”

“Maybe you’re just too bitter,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Shut up.”

He grins, and you grin back at him, only a little reluctantly. You take advantage of the pause to drink some more coffee.

“Really, though,” you say, giving him an earnest look, “What did you like about me?”

“You don’t take shit from nobody,” he replies, smirking.

You give him a sceptical look.

“No, really,” he says, seriously, “Most of you lot would just quietly take my order and not say a thing.”

“Most baristas are better at their job,” you say, grimacing.

He laughs, and you smile. You glance up as the door opens, then swallow the last of your coffee and scurry back behind the counter. The new customer gives you a weird look, but doesn’t say anything. You think he can suck it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dave says, standing up and abandoning his all but untouched coffee, “When d’you get off?”

“Six,” you reply, in the middle of jotting down your next order.

“See you then,” he says, waving from the doorway, “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Not Indian,” you call after him, and he laughs.

“What about Chinese?”

“Only if it’s the good place.”

“Okay, cool.”

You smile to yourself as you make the coffee, thinking maybe he isn’t such a douchebag after all. You think you really don’t hate him, after all. Perhaps you even like him a lot. That, however, is a problem for another day.


End file.
